


hold my hand and we're halfway there

by cynicwhocould



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, BAMF Bilbo, F/M, Female Bilbo, Gen, POV Alternating, Warning for Sass, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2017-12-09 02:59:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/769174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynicwhocould/pseuds/cynicwhocould
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In another life, Gandalf scratched a rune onto the freshly painted door of a bachelor-for-life and started a chain of unexpected events leading to an epic that would be remembered for centuries.<br/>That's a story for another time. At the end of Bagshot Row lives Bryony Baggins, Head of the Baggins family, daughter of Belladonna Baggins nee Took-<br/>And she won't be taking any of your shit.</p>
<p>(Or: The one where Bilbo is a sassy, politically minded woman who survived being an unwed half-Took spinster who takes after her mother. Watch out, Smaug.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Thoroughly Expected Dinner Party with some Unexpected Guests

It was a fine spring day in the Shire. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and a certain Bryony Baggins of Bag End was opening her green door to the bright day.

Pink lips turned up in a smile, and floured hands were wiped carefully against a sturdy canvas apron. No use, Bryony decided, in wearing a nice embroidered dress today. She had been making bread the whole morning, and bread pudding out of the stale loaves that she had been replacing.

Sighing, she sat against the carved wooden bench in her front yard, deciding to enjoy the sunlight.

She basked in the warmth of the spring sun for all of two minutes before a shadow blocked out the glow. Bryony opened a green eye lazily, before sitting up and blinking.

In front of her stood a man that seemed to have been pulled from the deepest of her childhood memories. He was old, with a grey beard and hair, but stood taller than most Men. The mysterious figure was clothed entirely in grey travelling robes, with a pointed hat that seemed as dusty as the rest of him and a gnarled old walking staff that Bryony eyed curiously.

She met smiling grey eyes, and warily said “Good morning.”

He looked at her inscrutably, and replied “What do you mean? Do you mean to wish me a good morning, or do you mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not? Or, perhaps you mean to say that you feel good on this particular morning. Or, are you simply stating that this is a morning to be good on?”

Bryony blinked twice, looking with large eyes on the figure that had both interrupted her rest and muddled her morning with convoluting a simple salutation.

“Oh, why not all of them at once?” Bryony smiled despite herself at the ridiculousness of the situation-it seemed more like the start of a rather ridiculous story.

“Can I help you though? Or invite you in for a cup of tea? It’s nearing elevenses after all.” She looked up at him, and despite all her Baggins-bred manners, she desperately wanted to be as Tookish as possible right now. Staring at his face, Bryony felt familiarity with this man, as if she had met him before in some manner or way-even if for the life of her, she couldn't remember  _where_.

The old man seemed like an _adventure_ all on his own.                                                                                           

He beamed at her and nodded, and Bryony got up from her stone bench and opened the gate, leading the way to her freshly painted round door.

Bag End was warm, comfortable and sprawling. It had been made large and grand with her father’s own two hands as a gift to her mother, Belladonna Took. Every enameled tile, every post, every carefully carved wooden table screamed _home_ to anyone who cared to listen.

Bryony carefully wiped her feet on a rug placed near the door for that purpose and wandered off to the kitchen to begin preparing tea. Her small hands flew about as she went through her daily ritual-2 cups, no milk, one twist of honey and lemon, and the kettle set to boil for more. She set out good china and put it on the table as the old man walked in, having mastered the art of moving about in a home meant for people half one’s size.

As Bryony set the mug in front of him, she asked idly “I’d like to know your name, by the way.”

He laughed, loud and gaily with a smile that was almost infectious. “Well you know my name, although you don’t remember that I belong to it. I am Gandalf, and Gandalf means _me_.”

Bryony gasped with delight, smiling at finally placing his spot in her memories. “Gandalf! The Wizard who would visit the Old Took and tell the most wonderful stories. I remember you!” Those days beside the fireplace, with her mother brushing out her hair and a low voice reciting the lay of Beren and Luthien were treasured memories of hers. Bryony had never thought that she’d meet the voice who had sung the Elven tales again after the death of her mother.

Gandalf chuckled. “Well I’m pleased to find you remember something about me, even if it is just an old man’s stories.”

She was silent for a while, sitting with a bemused smile at her face before saying “Pardon my intrusion, but what is your business in the Shire? Not many Big Folk know of it, let alone come here.”

Gandalf’s grey eyes twinkled. “I am looking for someone to share in an adventure.”

Bryony choked on her tea.

“In the Shire, of all places? I don’t think that anyone west of Bree would regard an adventure with any degree of curiosity. Most hobbits regard travel as something unpleasant that makes you late for elevenses.”

“Nevertheless, it is a hobbit I am looking for, and what better than the only one to invite me over for a good cup of tea?”

Bryony processed the statement and stared at him incredulously.

“Me?”

He harrumphed at her tone and thumped her china lightly on the table for emphasis.

“Are you not the daughter of Belladonna Took, she who was three days late for her wedding because she went off to Rivendell to meet the elves?”

Bryony suppressed a smile. Her mother's antics were legendary. “I am not my mother.”

Gandalf snorted. “Clearly. You have changed, Bryony Baggins, and not for the better.”

Oh well now, _that_ was insulting.

“I can’t.” Her tone was frigid, and to hide her shaking hands she went to the kitchen to prepare another pot of tea.

“What happened to the girl who would wander the forests looking for the fae? To the young hobbit lass who would rather run off to Farmer Maggot and learn the sling than sit down and learn hostess skills? What happened to you, Bryony?”

She paused at the kitchen counter and made her way back to her dining table with a kettle of hot water. Blonde hair shielded green eyes from Gandalf’s view before refilling both their mugs with an elegant and learned flick of the wrist. Finally Bryony paused, mug in hand for support.

“Her parents died. She had to grow up.”

Gandalf’s eyes were soft with sympathy that Bryony didn’t care for one bit.

“Did she have to?”

She slammed her cup down.

“She had to when we become the Baggins of Bag End, with trade agreements and family to worry about. _I_ had to when barely out of my majority I had to oversee Drogo and every cadet branch of the Baggins family that wanted to swoop down and steal my inheritance. I had to grow up Gandalf, because there wasn’t any time, place or room for what I wanted to do.” Bryony took a steadying sip of her tea, and the sweet warmth emboldened her.

“You’re older now. Your home is stable, your family prosperous,” Gandalf gestured with his hand, the other clenched around the mug. “Let yourself live, Bryony. Don’t be haunted by ghosts and expectations.” His hand made its way to her smaller one, and he held it. Her hand was swallowed by his larger, gnarled one and she choked back a sob.

“No.” He looked down at her sharply.

“No, I don’t think I can.”

His eyes grew soft despite his obvious disappointment. They sat there in silence and understanding for a while, before Bryony moved her hand from his and decided.

“You must come to dinner tonight though.” Her green eyes were focused on the table, resolutely not meeting Gandalf’s.

“It’s the polite thing to say. And maybe,” Bryony hesitated here, hands fidgeting. “Maybe you can tell me more about my mother.”

Gandalf smiled sadly, before widening his eyes in realisation. Bryony hadn’t seen however, and so he cleared his throat and answered her.

“Well that’s decided. It will be very good for you, and very amusing for me.” He stood up, hitting his head on the ceiling again.

“May I bring guests?”

She finally looked up, lips open in a perfect o as shock flitted its way across her face. The mistress of Bag End quickly composed herself however, and agreed.

“How many should I prepare for?”

He chuckled to himself and made his way to the door, Bryony hot on his heels and waiting for an answer.

“I do not think it’s a matter of how, but who my dear girl.” Gandalf ducked out of the way of the chandelier and opened Bryony’s round green door, pausing to look back at her.

“Don’t worry.” He picked up his staff from where it had been laying and smiled at her gently. “It’ll just be a couple of people!” He squeezed through the doorframe and made his way to Bag End’s gate.

“You still haven’t told me _who_ is coming exactly, Gandalf!” Bryony cried, racing after him. Gandalf had shut the garden gate and looked at her as she ran to him, coming up short in front of him with the gate between.

“Oh, just a couple of dwarves. Don’t worry, they won’t be much trouble at all.” Gandalf laughed and walked down the dirt path with his staff for support. He stopped at one of the posts, scratching in a mark while unseen by Bryony.

She stood there, hands on the fence for support, mouth an ‘o’ of surprise.

“Dwarves. Oh, _dwarves_.” She hurriedly opened the gate, rushing down the path.

The Shire is a larger place than one would expect, being comprised mostly of homes, gardens and farms with town squares in each farthing and meeting parks in each neighborhood. Still, a Hobbit with a good sense of direction could go far indeed in less time than one would expect.

Bryony knocked on one of the doors of the smial, her niece coming to answer it.

“I need your help.”

Amaranth Brandybuck was her niece on her mother’s side, having been born from Belladonna Took’s sister Mirabella and Gorbadoc Brandybuck. She was the best seamstress in the Shire and was rather close to her aunt, who had a good reputation despite her unmarried state and fostered many of her relatives. Bryony knew that she would have been at her friend’s house in Hobbiton, and looked accordingly.

Dwarves! Of all people to prepare for! She needed to prepare a lot, and needed help doing so.

Amaranth currently followed her aunt through the market. Bryony was picking up baskets of food-mostly meat, wheat products and root vegetables. Not a leafy green in sight. Her eyebrows went up as Bryony put mushrooms-a highly desirable product-in her basket.

“Why all the preparations aunt?”

Bryony grumbled as they carried baskets up Bagshot Row to Bag End.

“I need help preparing for some dinner guests.”

The strawberry blonde hobbit was washing root vegetables when Bryony answered. She looked at her aunt sharply.

“You’ve never needed help with guests before.”

Bryony twitched. How rude, for Gandalf to spring things on her like that! She needed to read, to prepare, to brush up on etiquette! Still, she was excited in a way that Bryony rarely dared to feel.

“They’re different this time.” Skilled fingers easily formed crumbly dough to be made into savoury tarts as well as sweet ones. “An old friend of my mother’s is arriving tonight for dinner. Or supper-he’s one of the Big Folk and so I don’t know when he’ll arrive.”

“How rude.”

“He did leave in a rush. Gandalf-that’s his name, Amaranth-is bringing guests with him. Dwarves, to be exact.”

Amaranth stopped mid cut, knife movements stilling and the tween looked at her aunt incredulously.

“Dwarves? In the Shire, of all places?” Despite her misgivings, Bryony could hear excitement in the young lass’s tone.

“Yes.” She brought a pot over to the hearth to boil for a hearty stew. “That’s why I needed your help.”

Nothing more was said for a while as the two hobbit women flitted around the kitchen and pantry. Meat was marinated, vegetables were roasted, pies were cooked, soups were made-Bryony prided herself on her hostess skills in a place where she was not only Clan Head but also unmarried and the topic of gossip.

Dinner parties were akin to war, and Bryony was fully prepared to do battle.

Three pies of beef and veal alongside three sweet pies, one of rhubarb and the other of berries.  A dish of shepherd’s pie was included as well.  That sat in between three hearty stews, four platters of fish, a steak dish, a vegetable spread, a cheese board, a salad (for Bryony and Gandalf), the bread puddings from earlier, and dinner rolls. Her china was sturdy, as she had read up on Dwarven etiquette and learned that this dinner would most likely be a rather rowdy affair. Bryony looked with despair at her larder which seemed nearly empty as she closed it.

“Maybe we’ve gone overboard.” Amaranth huffed out a laugh at her aunt as she made her way to one of the parlours.

The tween had flour on hands and stains on her apron as she slumped tiredly in one of the chairs. It was dusk, the sun setting and light poured through the windows, illuminating Bag End with a warm glow. Bryony stood at the window, hands clean and arms crossed over her apron.

They waited for a while, eventually going on to other tasks such as cleaning the parlours and sweeping through the halls. Then it was nearly seven o’clock, and they still hadn’t come! Well, Gandalf had most likely meant the Big Folk’s dinner time, which was far different in the Shire.

Amaranth was cleaning up and reheating some of the food, removing her stained apron and fixing her well-embroidered bodice and full petticoats. Bryony was a blur, putting away her apron and washing her face and teeth and then rushing to her closet. Outfitting for war, her mother used to call it when she dressed for Baggins dinner parties, and Bryony remembered those days with a fond smile on her face.

Creamy white linen petticoats and a matching white shirt with bell-like sleeves were put on. A green skirt cut an inch short to show the petticoats followed with the embroidery on the hems done in gold-coloured thread and sewn in the Took and Baggins patterns. A bodice finished the look, and Bryony called Amaranth to lace in the back. The needle work on the bodice was fine work, and matched her skirt hems.

Finally the doorbell rings, and Bryony shoots up to answer the door as Amaranth quickly prepares the table.

A practiced smile was put on as she opened the door.

“Welcome to-“

Standing in front of her was a tall Dwarf warrior, head shaved, bearded, tattooed and armoured in a way that so clearly stood out in the eminently peaceful Shire.

“Dwalin, at your service.”

Bryony stopped staring and continued as best she could.

“Well, welcome to Bag End.”

She moved out of the way to let him in. Dwalin put down his pack in the doorway to the smoking room-which she had remade as a parlour-as well as his weapons. His footsteps were heavy and loud as he walked to the dining room and stared at the spread of food.

He looked at her expectantly.

“Are you Gandalf’s guest? He said I should be expecting some dwarves to show up alongside him.” He grunted an affirmation, and she realised what he must be waiting for. “Oh! Where are my manners? Please, eat.”

No truer words had been spoken as Dwalin began to fill his plate and stuff himself with the food. His manners were atrocious, although he made sure none of the food fell onto his beard. Bryony and Amaranth looked on in barely concealed fascination and confusion, although the latter was following suit and eating as well.

“So, do you know when Gandalf and the others will be here?” Dwalin merely shrugged.

Bryony was starting to get the impression that he was not the most verbose of people.

The doorbell rang again, and she went up to answer it.

“Balin, at your service.”

He was white-haired and friendly looking, with a large smile.

“Good evening, and welcome to Bag End.” Bryony stood back and let him in. The hobbit was more prepared this time, and so smoothly led the white-haired dwarf to parlour for his stuff, and then to the dining room.

“Oh, ha ha! Evening, brother!” The two-apparently brothers-greeted each other, and ended their salutations with a roughly knocking their foreheads together with a smile while Bryony and Amaranth looked on with wonder.

Balin quickly settled in, grabbing ale that Amaranth had quickly put out and filling mugs for himself and his brother. The bell rang yet again, and Bryony warily walked to the door, not knowing whom to expect this time.

She opened the door to two large smiles.

“Fili,” started the bearded, blond haired one.

“Kili,” continued the stubbled, black-haired one.

“At your service!” They finished in unison, bowing to her. Bryony smiled-they seemed younger than the other two.

“You must be Mistress Boggins!” Kili exclaimed with a bright smile. His good mood was infectious, and Bryony felt herself disregarding her annoyance at the dinner.

“Baggins, actually. Bryony Baggins. Come in please.” She opened the door to them, and eyed their muddy boots pointedly. Sheepishly the two brothers-for they really only could be brothers-wiped their feet on the rug that Bryony had set out for just that purpose.

Fili began divesting himself of his weapons in the doorway, and she stopped him from pulling out his second sword with a soft hand.

“That’s what the parlour’s for, Master Fili.” Amaranth rose to help her aunt with their packs, before blushing as Kili gave her a saucy grin. The tween was a year away from her majority but already lovely, with rose gold hair, a sweet heart shaped face, and bright Took green eyes. Bryony grinned at the sight before leaning down to pick up their packs.

“Ah, no need to do that, miss.” Fili hefted up his pack and nudged his brother to do so. They put their belongings in the parlour before heading to the dining table. Balin and Dwalin had paused a bit in their voracious eating and they quickly stood up to greet the brothers.

“Mister Dwalin!” Kili exclaimed, clasping forearms with the burlier dwarf.

The talk was merry, although Amaranth and Bryony were largely left out of the conversation. Brushing off the slight with a smile, she stood to answer the doorbell which had rung yet again.

“If Gandalf isn’t with this one, I’m going to have a severe talk with him.” The blonde hissed under her breath as she made to open the door.

 This time, an entire heap of dwarves fell through the door to her smial. Bryony stared with shock into grey eyes, and Gandalf appeared behind the pile of bodies.

She narrowed her eyes, and his smile wavered.

The dwarves grumbled at each other before trying to extricate themselves. As Bryony helped them stand, they introduced themselves.

“Oin.” One yelled, a curious device stuck firmly in his ear.

“Gloin,” followed another dwarf who shared his facial features excepting red hair.

“Dori.”

“Nori.”

“Ori.” Well that trio was clearly related, Bryony thought as the family put down their belongings in the parlour. Amaranth smiled indulgently at the youngest one.

“Bombur.” Said another red haired dwarf, with a braided beard that stretched around his full belly.

“At least he would appreciate our hard work.” Amaranth muttered to her aunt, who laughed softly and then swatted her shoulder.

The last two put down their packs.

“Bofur and Bifur at your service.”

“Bryony Baggins, at yours.” She nodded to them as Amaranth gaped at the last dwarf, who had axe shards embedded in his head. The two made their way to the dining rooms, Bifur waving his hands in what Bryony supposed was a language as the gestures were too intricate not to mean anything.

Finally only Gandalf was left, and Bryony glared at him.

“Amaranth, go serve the others. I’m going to have a little chat with Master Gandalf.”

She quickly left, and Bryony hissed at the tall wizard. “Alright, I was prepared for three of your guests. Mayhap four, or even five. Not twelve people, showing up unannounced and most of them with bad manners! Gandalf, explain yourself.”

He shifted uncomfortably on his feet. Although he was taller than her, Gandalf was forced to slouch due to the low ceilings and so the height difference was shortened somewhat. Bryony used every ounce of intimidation she had to glare at the grey cloaked man.

“I was going to have a meeting, hopefully with you included.”

“A meeting about what? Gandalf, this was supposed to be a quiet dinner reminiscing about my mother with mayhap tales about the Dwarf kingdoms! Not _this_!” Bryony gestured in the direction of the dining room with a small hand, where laughter, loud voices and the clanking of cutlery could be heard.

He furrowed his brows. “Have they been rude, or not to your liking? I know that they can be rowdy my dear, but they’re good people-“ Bryony cut him off with a hand.

“I can ignore their bad manners and lack of conversation, but Gandalf all you had to do was talk to me first, you know.” She pinched the bridge of her nose between two fingers.

He looked properly remorseful. “I am deeply sorry. I didn’t know how you would take it.”

She sighed. “Well, just keep them from blunting the knives and breaking my mother’s china and we’re fine.” Gandalf looked highly amused at that comment.

“They’re dwarves. It goes against everything they are to blunt knives, and besides whatever they’re doing won’t harm your silverware.”

“I suppose so.” Bryony and Gandalf made their way towards the dining room, before being stopped by one of the dwarves. She racked her head for a name.

“Ah Gandalf, I was just looking for you! Would you like a cup of chamomile tea? You as well, Mistress Baggins.” She gratefully accepted a cup as Gandalf declined.

“Thank you, Master-“

“Dori. I suppose our introductions were a tad rushed.” She laughed at that, and the three made their way towards the dining room.

It was hectic and kept in an organised chaos. The ale was flowing and Amaranth looked as if she was having the time of her life. The dwarves were very merry indeed, and some had even broken out small instruments with which to play to add to the dinner’s atmosphere.

All in all, Bryony could barely remember her earlier irritation at being brushed off as she struck up a conversation with Dori, who was unfailingly polite. His younger brother, Ori, joined in with questions on hobbit culture.

“He’s a scribe, you see, so he’s forever reading about new places.” Dori explained with a proud look on his face as Ori blushed.

She smiled at him indulgently, and answered his questions.

It continued in this vein for a while, and both the ale and the platters of food were steadily depleted by the hungry dwarves. Once or twice Bryony and Amaranth had to go put out more food. None of that was particularly surprising noted the amount of people.

The dwarves were messy and rowdy, although they seemed to have made an effort to be polite for her. She smiled widely at Bofur, baring her teeth as he prepared to launch a dinner roll at his brother Bombur. He put his arm down and merely passed it to him.

It was on one such run (there was a shortage of ale, and they _couldn’t have that_ ) that Ori stopped Bryony with a hand on her elbow. She looked at him with surprise. It was the end of the meal, and most of the dwarves were grabbing their packs and fetching pipes and instruments. Bofur walked past her with a clarinet as she made her way into the room. The others wandered around her house.

“Excuse me, put that down please. It’s a doily, not a dishcloth.”

The red-haired brother, Nori, looked at her askance. “But it’s full of holes!”

“It’s supposed to be that way. It’s crochet.” She explained, before turning her attention to Ori. 

“I’m sorry Ori. What was that?”

“Excuse me Miss Baggins, but what should I do with my plate?”

Amaranth heard, making her way over before being stopped by Fili.

“Here you go Ori, give it to me.” Fili grabbed the plate and threw it to Kili, who threw the crockery behind his back until it hit Bifur, who stood by the sink.

“Master Fi-“ she walked to him, but didn't dare come closer for fear of having one of the dishes fly into her head and not past it.

“Master Fili! That’s my mother’s, I don’t want it broken!” Bryony wrung her hands fretfully.

“No, Master Kili please don’t-oh, dear.” The dwarves began pounding the table rhythmically with the utensils, and Bryony was about to stop them before remembering Gandalf’s words.

These were dwarves, they weren’t going to damage her silverware, right?

Her china on the other hand, was an entirely different story.

“Fili!” Bryony exclaimed one last time, decided to throw pleasantries to the wind. “If any of you’ve broken my china you’re replacing it boys!” she ranted. The two brothers merely grinned at her and presented her with a stack of dishes, all fully washed by Bifur and Bombur. Bryony blinked and smiled sweetly at the two who had done the chores, and said “There was no need to do such a thing. Still, I’m grateful to you two.” Bombur blushed and Bifur beamed at her happily.

She spun around to glare at Fili and Kili. “You two, on the other hand-“ Bryony was interrupted in her (well deserved) scolding of the mischievous dwarves by a mighty knock. It was repeated two more times, and Gandalf turned to her.

“He is here.”

Amaranth, who had kept in the back with the dwarves, said “He’s late for supper, whoever _he_ is.” with a disapproving tone. Privately, Bryony agreed, but she made her way to the door anyways.

She opened it to a yet another dwarf-one whom just by looking at Bryony could tell was different from the rest. He was wearing a fur-lined overcoat, a blue jerkin and heavy chainmail. Long hair laced with silver framed a handsome face with strong features and a short-cropped beard. He looked at her expectantly, and Bryony bristled at the inspection.

Bryony silently moved out of the way, letting him through. Inside, she was seething. Late, without so much as a “Good evening” to say, and dismissive?

Gandalf stood behind her, and the stranger’s gaze shifted towards him.

“Gandalf. I thought you said this place would be easy to find. I lost my way, twice. Wouldn’t have found it at all if it hadn’t been for the marks on the fence.”

Bryony’s head whipped towards Gandalf, who cringed.

“My fence? You carved marks into my fence?” Gandalf huffed, as if it had been 100% necessary and she was merely being obstinate.

“Did it not occur to you that I could have provided a sign at any opportunity?” Her hands fell to her hips and Gandalf winced, although Thorin’s eyes followed the movement and lingered there for a moment. Bryony acquiesced that that would be the end of the matter however, and faced her guest.

“You’re late for dinner, so I don’t have much to offer. I will do my best however for you.” Bryony said awkwardly. She stood for a moment, awaiting his response. He cleared his throat, and said “I thank you, and apologize for my lateness. Had Gandalf followed your advice, I am sure I would have made it.” Was that sarcasm? She couldn’t understand. Bryony smiled politely however, and led him to the dining room. With a look Amaranth understood and set out what remained of one of the stews for him.

Bryony cleared her throat, and the dwarf looked up at her. She noticed idly that his eyes were a piercing shade of blue-like ice or the clear waters of mountain springs.

“I have yet to know your name, Master…”

Was that embarrassment on his features?

“Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thorin POV time! Which is also why it took so long.
> 
> Thorin's frostiness is a cover up for not knowing how to deal with women (especially women he's attracted to). Besides, if I was a King, surrounded by sycophants all day, I'd most likely go for the one who's not afraid to tell me where to stick things.
> 
> Warning for a surprisingly not surprising sassy Thorin and blatant checking out of hot females by straight men. 
> 
> Sorry for the lateness of this chapter. Real life and illness got in the way of my fandom and then yet another fandom (Doctor Who) got in the way of this fandom, so yeah. More warnings for using lines from the movie transcripts to write this because Thorin is an absolute bitch to write.

 

Gandalf interrupted the brief moment of staring before saying “Bryony, Thorin is the leader of our Company. Thorin, this is Bryony Baggins, the mistress of this home.”

 

She raised an eyebrow with an unimpressed look, and Gandalf looked sheepish. He marveled at her commanding air-wizards were often hard to deal with. 

 

“Right.” This came from another hobbit, quite young and just as lovely, with rose gold hair and the same eyes, most likely indicating a blood relation. “Aunt,” well that was confirmed, “I’m just going to leave you lot to your super-secret discussion time.” Fili snickered and the girl stood up, kissing her aunt on the cheek.

 

“It’s dark outside.” Bryony furrowed her brows, and the girl rolled her eyes playfully.

 

“I’ll just stay at the Gamgee’s house. They know and like me, and there’s always room.” The only sound was that of the door closing, and then Gandalf turned back to the table.

 

“So this is the Hobbit.” Thorin looked at her again, taking in the smooth, unmarked skin, the curves of her soft body that were highlighted by her bodice, the softness of her hair and hands.

She was no burglar.

 

“Tell me, Mistress Baggins, have you done much fighting?”

 

Her eyes twitched, and he marked the extraordinary colour-as green as the emeralds mined in the finest veins of Erebor. Beautiful and rare.

 

“Clearly, I’m an oft-decorated fighter whose slain countless scores of beings.” She snorted, and Thorin wished that he wasn’t attracted to her sarcasm or sheer impertinence.

 

"Now there isn't much food left, but I will give you a stew and some ale." She offered, and Thorin wanted to smack himself. He should have left earlier, if he had known that there would be food involved. Instead he had eaten travel rations-filling, but horribly bland.

 

"No need for the stew. Thank you for the offer." He said stiffly, and she whirled off. Thorin's eyes settled appreciatively on her hips, and Dwalin snorted at his look. The meeting resumed when she returned with a tankard for him and a steaming mug of tea for herself. Thorin nodded to her in thanks, and she sat down beside him.

 

“What news from the meeting in Ered Luin? Did they all come?”

 

Thorin nodded. “Aye. Envoys from all seven kingdoms.” A shock in and of itself, considering how distant the kingdoms were. His mood was grim however as the rest murmured excitedly.

 

None stood by them. None would even have the courage to _listen_ let alone follow him.

 

“What do the dwarves of the Iron Hills say? Is Dain with us?”

 

“They will not come.”

 

Balin’s lips thinned in disapproval while Dwalin grunted in anger. Dain being Thorin’s kin, he had been their best hope of asking for aid. It seemed however, that even the bonds of blood would not have Dain risk his men on this journey. Thorin wished he could resent the man, but he understood his viewpoint too well. Dain did not have as large a personal stake in the matter; his men had to come before all else.

 

Thorin could wish, however.

 

“They say this quest is ours, and ours alone.”

 

“You’re going on a quest?” Bryony looked askance at him.

 

“Bryony my dear, let us have a little more light.” Gandalf interrupted, with a meaningful look at Thorin.

 

Ah, so the woman didn’t know of their adventure.

 

Bryony grabbed a candle lying on a side table and lit it quickly, holding it above Gandalf’s hands.

 

The crinkle of paper alerted Thorin, and he looked sharply at where the wizard was pulling out a map. He spread the yellowing parchment out, showing-

 

A map of Erebor, with strange runes in-Ancient Khuzdul? Where had he gotten this? Thorin stared the wizard in a way that usually made people sit up and pay attention, but Gandalf ignored him in favour of explaining the situation to Bryony.

 

“Far to the East, over ranges and rivers, beyond woodlands and wastelands, lies a single solitary peak.

 

My dear, this quest will be to-“

 

“Erebor.” Bryony breathed out, and Thorin shifted his gaze to her. She looked at the map in wonder, caressing the image of the Mountain with a slim finger. He felt his mouth go dry.

 

Home.

 

“-and the portents say it is time.” Gloin said, Oin continuing his train of thought by explaining the omens. Thorin knew it was time. It had been time for years for his people to go back to their home. He was only undertaking the quest _now_ (and damn the portents, however in his favour they may be) because his home was stable, finally whole. With the money that they had carefully made and the home they had eked out, Dis and her sons would have a comfortable life, should he not return.

 

And if they did, Fili and Kili would have the birthright they had always deserved.

 

“-and the reign of the beast will end.” Upon hearing the word “beast” Bryony stiffened from where she was standing between Thorin and Gandalf.

 

“You’re going up against a beast?” She looked at the company and the movement made her golden curly hair fall over her shoulder. Thorin pointedly did not stare at the sight of golden locks over the cream white skin of her throat.

 

“Aye.” Bofur gestured with his pipe in a tone that was far more placid than entirely appropriate when talking about Smaug. “Well, ‘beast’ is a reference to Smaug the Terrible, chiefest and greatest calamity of our age. Airborne fire-breather, teeth like razors, claws like meathooks, extremely fond of precious metals-“

 

Bryony had grown paler and paler at each descriptive phrase before hoarsely saying “Yes, I know what a dragon is.”

 

And then Ori shouted, and it all devolved from there. They are brave, all of them-dwarves who would fight to the death for their home. Loyal and true, and Thorin felt his heart warm for a moment.

 

But the truth is sobering, as Balin pointed out.

 

“The task would be difficult enough with an army behind us. But we number just thirteen, and not thirteen of the best, or brightest.” And everyone went up in arms. Inside, Thorin despaired upon seeing Kili try and refute that accusation.

 

He loved his nephews, he really did. But Thorin was many things, and one of them was not blind.

 

Fili was yelling as well, and Thorin steadfastly blamed Heptifili for both of the Durin line’s little terrors. “We may be few in number, but we’re fighters, all of us, to the last dwarf!”

 

Thorin felt a hand on his arm, and he turned to the burglar, who had a corner of the map clenched in her hands.

 

“Gandalf, you haven’t said everything about this map, have you?” Bryony turned questioning eyes towards the grey wizard, who shifted uncomfortably on his seat.

 

“My dear, I was getting to that,” he said, coughing on his pipe smoke. Thorin turned to the hobbit, who realised that she still had her hand on his arm. She blushed fetchingly, and turned to the map.

 

“My father collected documents-maps and books from every corner of Middle Earth. Now, why would Gandalf put an ordinary map of Erebor on the table? He knows that you all must know the way, and that I would have one if he did not. There had to be something else to the parchment. Here,” she jabbed a finger at a row of runes under a hand that pointed to the mountain. “I can’t read it, but it’s the only thing on the map that’s out of the ordinary.” Now all eyes turned to Gandalf, who coughed again and took his pipe out of his mouth.

 

“Bryony is correct. This map is no ordinary map.” Gandalf turned to Thorin, grey eyes meeting steady blue ones. “In fact Thorin, it was given to me by your father, King Thrain, for safekeeping.” He could hear the hobbit's quiet intake of breath as the only sound in the room.

 

The room was dead quiet, no sound made by the men and woman with only the crackle of the hearth-fire to add to the air. Thorin was barely breathing and his eyes were wide.

 

“He gave me three things-a map, a secret, and this key.” Gandalf fished a key out of his long sleeves, holding up an ornately worked key made of steel. Thorin took it from his hands, holding it tenderly.

 

“Wait,” Fili said. “If there’s a key, there must be a door!”

 

Kili continued his brother’s train of thought, a large smile on his face. “There’s another way in!”

 

Gandalf looked annoyed that someone would stop his train of melodrama. Thorin snorted at the look, and Bryony quietly laughed.

 

“The runes speak of a hidden passage leading to the lower halls.”

 

“Nothing else?” Thorin said, disappointed. Dwarf doors were invisible when closed, and looking for a door that could be hidden anywhere in the mountain was a near impossible feat. He inwardly despaired.

 

“The answer to where lies somewhere in this map, and I do not have the skill to find it. But,” he said evasively, “there are others in Middle-Earth who can. The task I have in mind will require a great deal of stealth, and no small amount of courage. But if we are careful and clever, I believe it can be done.”

 

“ _That_ is why we need a burglar.” Oin said pointedly, looking towards the burglar, who was still intently studying the map and not paying any attention toward the discussion.

 

“Hm? Oh, a good one I imagine.” Hopefully she was talented. Though Bryony Baggins did not seem like someone who would slack off, Thorin would not risk the Company with anyone but the very best of burglars. She would have gleaned enough information from the situation to know what they expected her to do.

 

“An expert really.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear from where it had fallen onto the page. “It would take someone remarkably light on his or her feet to navigate the tunnels and sneak past the dragon.”

 

“And are you?” Gloin demanded, and it was only then when Bryony fully looked up from the map, her lips rounded in shock.

 

“W-what?”

 

“A burglar.” Dori said patiently, and her head swiveled to face his.

 

“Why I never-“

 

“So you’re not a burglar then?” Dwalin said, sounding decidedly neutral. Both he and Thorin knew that women were just as capable as men-living in close proximity to Dis would do that to you-but the hobbit seemed soft and sweeter than a summer’s day. Thorin dreaded having to drag her through the wilderness to fight for a cause that was not even her own.

 

He couldn’t ask her of that. He could barely ask these men to follow him, and they were all kinsmen and brothers in arms.

 

“No, I’m not a burglar. I’ve never stolen a thing in my life!” Oblivious to his dark thoughts the discussion continued, with Bryony at the head of the table, wearing a scandalised expression.

 

“I would have to agree with Mistress Baggins. She’s not exactly burglar material.” Bryony nodded along with Balin, with Dwalin piping in to continue his brother’s train of thought.

“Aye, the wild is no place for gentle ladies who cannot fend for themselves.” Dwalin grunted, and Thorin winced. That...could be interpreted in ways that his friend might not have anticipated. Bryony twitched, cheeks growing redder and fists clenching.

“I can take perfect care of myself, Master Dwalin,” she said, voice frigid.

 

“We’re not questioning that, Mistress Baggins.” Fili said, long-borne instincts from years of living with his mother prompting his response.

 

This outpoured another argument of what to do with the burglar at the center, desperately trying to follow the track of the conversation. Finally, Gandalf stood, face grim and eyes narrowed.

 

“Enough! If I say Mistress Baggins is a burglar, then a burglar she is!” He boomed, the (artificial) darkness he cast serving to make his point and shut the company up.

 

“No need for dramatics, Gandalf.” Well, shut everyone up save for their burglar, who was glaring at Gandalf for the commotion and the entire mess. He sheepishly sat down, but continued his passionate defense.

 

“Hobbits are remarkably light on their feet. Smaug knows the scent of dwarf and man, but never has he encountered a hobbit-a race that can pass by undetected by most.

 

You have trusted me to choose the fourteenth member of our Company, and I have chosen Bryony Baggins.”

 

“And I haven’t yet accepted, Gandalf.” She responded mildly. Balin took a piece of parchment out of his pocket for her to see.

 

“Here, lass. The contract so you can look at all sides of the argument. Just the usual agreement-out of pocket expenses, time required, remuneration, medical aid, funeral expenses. Things like that.”

 

Bryony accepted it with a nod, unfolding it with a practiced snap of her wrist.

 

“Death, funeral expenses covered-I hope that includes transport expenses too because I _will_ be buried in the Shire-up to but not exceeding one-fourteenth of the Mountain’s wealth-I won’t be taking much of that, I don’t want wealth and if I’m doing something like this it wouldn’t be for the money.” She looked at Thorin, who understood. This house was large and the area peaceful. Her folk were farmers, not any to appreciate or even want things like gold and jewels.

 

It would take far more than the Mountain’s treasures to ask her to go on this trip.

 

“Medical aid will be provided by the Company healer, Oin. Food and travel expenses are covered as well.”

 

While she looked over the contract with narrowed eyes, Thorin leaned towards Gandalf.

 

“I cannot guarantee her safety, Gandalf. Nor can I guarantee her life.” He would defend her as he would with any member of the Company, but Erebor was the larger picture.

 

“Present company shall not be liable for injuries inflicted by or sustained as a consequence thereof including but not limited to-

 

 _Lacerations, eviscerations, and incinerations?_ Gandalf!”

 

Bryony looked panicked. Thorin cringed. He had almost forgotten that the Shire was peaceful, that the people here enjoyed peace and prosperity.

 

“Those clauses are just precautions.”

 

Thankfully Bryony accepted his explanation with a nod. Bofur took his pipe out of his mouth, and Thorin mentally cursed him for what he knew he was about to say.

 

“Oh aye, lass. He’ll melt the flesh of your bones in a blink of an eye.” Sometimes Thorin wondered if Bofur had a little something extra in his pipe for no sane person could be that cheery when talking about their possible incineration. He watched Bryony go pale.

 

“Is that so?” She said in a breathless voice.

 

“Are you alright, lass?” Balin said, brows furrowed in worry. She waved him off, leaning against the doorframe for support.

 

“Think furnace with wings.” She grew paler and paler as Bofur waved his hands to illustrate his point.

 

“Flash of light, searing pain, then poof! You’re nothing more than a pile of ash!” He said cheerily, and Thorin looked at him in wonderment as to how. Bryony however was taking Bofur’s words to heart.

 

“Right then.” She nodded, standing. Bryony put her hands on her thighs, breathing slowly.

 

“Nope.” And the hobbit abruptly fainted. Thorin shot up to help her-he was closest after all, and she was a lady. With a grunt he hefted her into his arms, noting how she felt right in his arms-warm and a welcome heavy weight. He shook his thoughts away, carrying her into the parlor and laying her on the couch. Gandalf followed, and the rest stayed behind.

 

“Dori, make her a cup of tea.” The fussy dwarf nodded to his king and began making preparations. If Thorin had read her right, she wouldn’t be happy with the whole business and so he deserted Gandalf to the hobbit’s tender mercies after pressing Dori’s tea into the wizard’s gnarled hands. Thorin wanted to walk around and check on the company after all.

 

Best be on the safe side after all. He had grown up with Dis-Thorin had instincts about this sort of thing. The others were wandering around, making preparations to their packs such as packing their bedrolls, mending bags and clothes. While they were here, it was best to take advantage of the lull and do their chores.

 

Thorin ran into Balin, and they walked together through the halls back towards the dining room.

 

“It seems as if we have lost our burglar.”

 

Thorin shook his head. “I feel as though we may be surprised by her. I don’t think it is so much the journey that she is worried about and more her duties here.”

  
“So she is leader of her family, as Gandalf told us? Not exactly conducive to going with us.” The old wizard had said remarkably little about the Shire and Bryony save testaments to her character-any woman who had lead her family after her parent’s death and brought prosper to her clan had to have a strong will.

 

“It is probably for the best though.” Balin said with a grim finality. “The odds were always against us. What is this company anyways? Merchants, miners, tinkers, toy-makers; hardly the stuff of legend.”

 

Thorin begged to differ. “There are a few warriors amongst us,” he said pointedly to Balin, who was an oft-decorated warrior himself.

 

“ _Old_ warriors.” He fired in return. It was no secret that Balin thought of this journey as a last hurrah. With his last years he would do anything to see Erebor back to her final glory.

 

“I would take each and every one of these dwarves over an army from the Iron Hills.” Thorin said fiercely. He would take his kinsmen and brothers-in-arms over the empty hands and words that accompanied cold, judgmental eyes. Thorin would trust untrained miners at his back over his supposed kin that came only after he had lost half of his folk through war and disease and still treated them like a pestilence.

 

“For when I called on them, they came. Loyalty. Honour. A willing heart. I can ask no more than that.” He met Balin’s eyes with a steady look.

 

“You don’t have to do this laddie.”

 

Yes, he did.

 

“You have a choice. You’ve done honourably by our people. You have built a new life for us in the Blue Mountains, a life of peace and plenty. A life that is worth more than all the gold in Erebor.” Balin looked at him, silently pleading him to consider.

 

But Balin couldn’t understand. Thorin was a king-albeit a king without a kingdom-and his life was centered around his people. They had fought, struggled for wealth and although they had stability they had lost their homes, their history, their legacy.

 

 _That_ is what he was fighting for. What he kept in mind every day. Thorin chanced a glance at his nephews who were in the parlour, lost in their own little world. He would risk everything on this mission to make them into the kings he knew they had the potential to be.

 

Thorin fished his father’s key out and held it to Balin.

 

“From my grandfather to my father, this has come to me. They dreamt of the day when the dwarves of Erebor would reclaim their homeland. There is no choice, Balin. Not for me.”

 

His old friend nodded, resigned. They stood up together, heading to the parlor where the others had already congregated.

 

The air was heavy with the smoke and the implications. The hobbit was seated on one of the arm chairs, inquisitive eyes turned towards him. He knew nothing of what the wizard had said to her, and even less of her feelings. Would she come? Would she stay? He could not fault her for either choice and Thorin knew even less about which one he would like her to choose.

 

He leaned against a carefully carved mantlepiece, staring at the fire.

 

The dwarves were a musical folk, made to craft exquisite lays as much as they were made to craft objects of wonder. There were songs written nearly everything, emotion poured into words and song that they otherwise would not have expressed. It was a near holy thing in their culture to create things of art and beauty, to take their emotions and express them in their mediums of choice.

 

And so they had, and so many did. Thorin called to mind a song sung to him by his mother when he was bloody from fighting during the walk across Middle Earth when their people had first been driven out of their homes by Smaug. He could almost feel her cold fingers combing through his hair, sobbing out a song in a voice that long ago many would have walked hundreds of miles to hear. He had sat there in smoldering anger at the world, wondering why they were fighting, why they held on to life. Frerin had been laid in the bed beside him, knocked out from a lucky blow and he wondered why.

 

His mother sang him to sleep that night, voice quiet and hoarse. To this day every time Thorin looked for his purpose he heard his mother’s voice on the wind, thin and weak and longing for a home that she never lived to see again.

 

He called that tune to mind as he began to sing.

 

_“Far over the misty mountains cold_

_To dungeons deep, and caverns old._

_We must away, ere break of day_

_To find our long forgotten gold.”_

His voice was low and start out softly. The others joined in on the second verse, adding different layers of pain and harmony to a song that was now an anthem still quietly whispered decades after in the homes of dwarves who never forgot their homes.

 

 He sang alongside his kin, soft and low under his voice with one arm resting on the mantle. Staring into the flames, Thorin felt the blistering warmth of a long ago blaze scorch his skin. The scent of sulfur and brimstone surrounded him and he felt as if he was choking on the sound and stench and sight of _dragon dragon dragon_ that filled his sight.

 

And for a moment in the verse, Thorin felt himself consumed with the fire that had been haunting him for years.

 

The song ended, and with a silent agreement the dwarves started to pack their belongings. Bryony waved them over towards comfortable rooms, all furnished with large, spacious beds. There were enough rooms for each family to share along with bathrooms.

 

Some of them however, had fallen asleep long before. Thorin looked at his nephews lying on the couches in one of the parlors. Black hair mingled with bright gold upon the cushions and his features softened. Thorin looked around for blankets before being stopped by a soft hand by the hobbit.

 

She was wearing a long nightgown, her hair falling over one shoulder. Bryony had blankets aplenty in her arms, and together she and Thorin draped them over his sleeping nephews.

 

Quietly he banked the fire until it was little more than coals. She followed suit, tidying up the curtains and straightening furniture that thankfully made little sound when moved.

 

“They’ve never had a home, have they?”

 

And in a sentence, Thorin understood. His nephews had lived in different houses all their lives; drifting from one to the next as their people did with nary a place in which to grow. He looked at her. Bryony’s hand was on the mantle, stroking carvings that he had been told had been carved and built as a gesture of love to her mother.

 

Thorin ached to build his sister-sons a home carved from love and labour.

 

“No, they have not.”

 

She nodded and drifted off to the other room. Thorin followed in the same direction, navigating through the maze like tunnels of Bag End until they reached the parlour across from the dining room. On the table lay the contract, a piece of paper that marked Thorin’s feelings about this expedition. As she sat down to read it more thoroughly their eyes met, and once again Thorin was struck by the extraordinary colour.

 

No words needed to be exchanged. Thorin knew why she would sign it. With a flourish and a flick of her wrist the deed was done, and with a nod she handed it to him for safe-keeping.

 

“Thorin?”

 

He nodded towards her, stopping in his motions towards his room for the night.

 

“I need to ask a favour. Also, set off without me in the morning. I’ll catch up.”

 

He nodded again.

 

“What is it you wish?”

 

Bryony looked relieved as they walked towards their rooms.

 

“I just need to know what to pack, see.” Slim fingers twisted her nightgown as Thorin tracked the small movement.

 

He cleared his throat. “Certainly.”

 

“We will be heading east and north, cutting across the wilderness most of the time to hasten the journey. Pack a bedroll, plenty of blankets, warm and sturdy clothing, toiletries, and at least one heavy coat. It is best to layer one’s clothing so you can get the most.” He shifted on his feet, uncomfortable with speaking so long towards someone he barely knew. Oh, Thorin could talk with diplomacy but he chose not to say words for the sake of them.

 

“Alright.”

 

He coughed slightly. “As well as items with which to while away the time. There won’t be much to do if all goes according to plan until we reach Dale, at the earliest.”

 

She graced him with a smile. “Thank you, Thorin. Sorry again for keeping you up.” And with a nod she left for the night, to leave him to his musings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay AO3 is fucking with me. Sorry for the abnormally large sentence spacing.


	3. I Knew I Should've Stayed at Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BAAAAACK.
> 
> I could state myriad reasons for fucking off for nearly an entire year like I did. Health issues (severe enough for me to withdraw from school for a bit), mental health issues, family, working on my actual novel and poetry anthologies. I won't, because excuses tend to make people angry since they so often smell like bullshit, but I'm back. So, there.
> 
> Forgive me if this chapter is a little rushed. I wanted to get it out as soon as possible. BECAUSE I GOT FANART, BITCHES, AND IT WAS AMAZING ENOUGH TO GET MY ASS INTO GEAR.
> 
> IT IS HERE: http://archiveofourown.org/works/1133614  
> BEHOLD ITS WONDER, AND DESPAIR.
> 
> (Also watch out for swearing but really if I had to forego a night's of sleep because I got battered, bruised, and nearly eaten by trolls I think no matter how nice or friendly I am I would be swearing up a storm.)
> 
> (Green Lady is Yavanna. I've got a headcanon that all the hobbits refer to the Valar in this roundabout, titled way, reminiscent of the way the Seven are referred to in A Song of Ice and Fire. More will come up on this throughout the story.)
> 
> Without further ado, begin reading!

Travelling, Bryony decided, is awfully overrated and Gandalf was a sham.

A great big grey useless lump, she decided, who apparently couldn’t do normal wizardly things such as _keeping them dry_ because oh no, that would be far too helpful to come from Gandalf the Grey.

Maybe she was bitter. Just a tad bit. Bryony wrung out her gold curls as her pony Myrtle stepped in yet another Valar-be-damned puddle.

“Gandalf?”

“Yes, my dear?”

“Can you make the rain stop?” Her voice was calm and sweet and betrayed nothing of the sheer indignation she felt at being soaking wet. Gandalf had the gall to chuckle in her face.

“My dear, if you wanted to stay dry you should’ve stayed at home! I can no more command the weather than you can command the oceans themselves.”

“You could at least conjure an umbrella.” Bryony replied acidly before loping back to talk to Dori. Honestly, what was the use of a wizard if he didn’t do anything wizardly? Sometimes she thought that the only use that wizards seemed to have was to annoy everyone with their general presence and drop wise-sounding one-liners when they had the change. Her pony snickered, as if agreeing.

Now, for Dori. The fussy dwarf had commented on her embroidery, and if she was going to be on this trip, she was going to network through it.

Few knew it, but the main supplier of both Rivendell and the Rangers was the Shire. Most notably, the business began by Belladonna Baggins (nee Took) and now run by her daughter. Food, cloth, leather, wood—all things that the Shire had in abundance and used to trade with other lands. A safer, closer land of course, but it was trade nonetheless.

Every interaction is a business interaction after all. Bryony thought that her parents would be proud.

They had been travelling for little under two weeks, days and days and days spent on ponies and nights spent huddled around a campfire, eating rough travelling rations and laughing. It was difficult, to say the least, to worm her way through to friendship with people from another culture, land and species, who had known each other for nigh on decades, but she was trying. Trying her utmost and Bryony Baggins had stubbornness in spades, from both sides of the family.

Dori was one of her targets. Bryony was determined to learn and befriend these dwarves, to spend a mission carrying out a duty in laughter and kinship rather than the silence between two who could not understand. Dori had expressed interest in her home? Capitalise on that. As well as the friendly overtures from the Family ‘Ur. Nothing was worse than being an outcast, especially when it was rubbed in your face in every interaction you had. Bryony knew this. So she would spend the next week riding near Dori, and then of course his family would follow because the Brothers ‘Ri never went anywhere without each other, no matter how tenuous their bond might seem.

And the bonus was that Dori was close enough to Thorin that the hobbit could ogle the fit of his jerkin on his shoulders and the muscles straining through--

 _No._ Bryony shook her head empathetically. Bad thoughts.  She was here for a business venture, not to go down roads that had closed off long before this time! Cut a weed at its root, her father always said, and thoughts of Thorin could definitely be akin to a weed.

Was it Bryony’s fault that she was attracted to confidence, to demeanour and power? To the unsaid charisma born and bred, to every fibre in Thorin’s being that screamed that he was a leader of men. It was heady. It was arousing. It was something to be blatantly ignored as if he was of no more sexual consequence than Farmer Maggot Sr. No, no, no. Bryony was fifty bloody years old, and could handle her attraction, especially when it came unneeded, unwarranted, and at the worst bloody times.

Even if he had hands with thick, thick fingers which seemed so large and yet handled such delicate things, that would feel so good when—

 _NO._ Bryony yelled at her subconscious. _WE ARE NOT HERE FOR A SHAG._

_And besides, he’s an utter arse. And no, that doesn’t mean his arse is fit._

_(Though it is.)_

Bombur trotted along beside her, oblivious to her internal dilemma.

 

* * *

 

Bryony had quietly fed Myrtle for the night, as was her plan. The finicky animal (who was actually quite sweet if an inexperienced rider with limited patience didn’t have to ride her night and day) tended to be far more docile if the hobbit pampered her. The apple core crunched between her pony’s teeth as a scream split the air. Bryony jumped, grabbing a dagger from under her skirts and making her way towards the Company members on watch.

“Fili,” she hissed. “That was not a normal scream. Please tell that’s not what I think it is.”

The blond prince twisted his mouth solemnly. “No, lass, I think that’s exactly what you think it is.”

“Orcs.” Kili piped up, face uncharacteristically grim.

“Aye, the lowlands are crawling with them.” Fili continued.

“They strike in the wee small hours when everyone’s asleep. Quick and quiet; no screams, just a lot of blood.” Kili said, letting the silence fall before looking at his brother and sniggering. Bryony quickly sheathed her dagger and smacked the back of his head with her free hand, and did the same to Fili.

“Oi!”

“Don’t ‘oi’ me, boys!” She glared at them, green eyes narrowed in fury. “Excuse me if I think the possibility of my death isn’t something to be laughed at, no matter how far away those orcs actually are.”

“Mistress Baggins is right.” Thorin said, voice low with anger. “You think a night raid by orcs is a joke?”

“We didn’t mean anything by it.”

“No you didn’t. You know nothing of the world, if so easily you laugh at this.” Thorin said, anger and disappointment and disdain in his tone, making Fili and Kili go white with shame. Bryony sighed as Thorin took off, putting her dagger back in its thigh sheath. No matter how deserved, Kili looked enough like a kicked puppy for Bryony to reach over and run a rough hand over his hair.

“I know you didn’t, Kili. But there are some things in this world that will never be a joke.” She looked into their eyes. How young they seemed, fresh off of their majority and still greener than grass for all of the martial prowess they hinted at through sheer amount of weaponry. “An orc raid? Definitely one of them.” They look suitably chastened. “I’m going over to smooth things over with your uncle.” As she left, Balin came to explain to the boys exactly what made Thorin’s response so visceral. She kept an ear open to his response as she sat on a rock near Thorin, who faced off into the distance. 

She sat there as Balin finished his explanation and the awake members of the Company looked at Thorin with awe.  Everything made sense now, and oh, Bryony took back everything she said about the stick up Thorin’s ass. After both Smaug and Azanulbizar, his standoffishness was entirely warranted.

What he must have faced. Bryony closed her eyes, reading between the lines into all of what Balin _didn't_ say. She waited until the fire was banked, and the others had gone to sleep before finally opening her mouth.

“More of your family than just your grandfather fell that day.” It was a statement, not a question. Thorin stiffened, closing his eyes in remembrance or anger or grief. With him, it could’ve been all three.

“Yes. My brother, Frerin, and my brother-through-marriage, Vili.”

“Their father.”

“Yes. Many were lost that day.”

Bryony was quiet a moment. No wonder Thorin had snapped at his nephews, if their own father was a casualty of an orc battle. How their joke must have seemed.

“I understand.” Before Thorin could wheel around and lay into her for presuming that she could, in fact, understand his grief, she continued. “My parents died of sickness, my father dead and my mother too devastated to do anything but follow. I watched them die too, so I understand a bit of what it’s like to hate something out of your control so much that it burns you on the inside. I get it, but I know that they don't."

“They need to grow up, Mistress--“

“Bryony.” She said firmly.

Thorin hesitated for a fraction of a moment. “Mistress Bryony.” The blonde conceded the honorific with the barest of nods. That’ll be all she could get out of him today. “They need to be mature. Too much is riding on this quest. They know their roles, they know what’s at stake, and they can’t disregard it.” It was almost an apology, and from the proud dwarf beside her Bryony knew that it was all she would get.

“But Thorin, they don’t.” Finally, the dwarf turned around to face her, blue eyes boring into her own as if with a look he could consume her. Bryony held her own, willing what she was saying to sink into his skull. “They haven’t seen anyone die, they didn’t watch their father get cut down. Fili and Kili need to be more mature and they need to understand that they could die. I agree that they were out of hand, and that they don’t know much, but keep in mind that they haven’t seen even a quarter of what you had. Loss is easier to deal with, to laugh at even, when you’re too young to properly know what it is that those before have had to lose.”

“Who are you to tell me what to do with my own nephews?” Curt and to the point. A muscle in Thorin’s jaw twitched, and Bryony hastily backtracked.

“I’m saying that they need to be reminded of the dangers of this world, but perhaps yelling at them and trying to drive through a point they won’t be able to fully understand is not the way to go.” She hesitated for a minute, before continuing. “They look up to you for everything, Thorin. From what I understand, they look to you in place of their father. They trust you. Perhaps it’s time to trust that they’ll carry out your faith in them as well."

"You've known them for a couple of weeks, Miss Bryony." Thorin said. "I, in turn, have known them all their lives."

"Which is why you'll know better than I how they look up to you. All they want to do is make you proud. Perhaps you should trust that when the time comes, they'll do the right thing. That they'll do right by you."

 Before she could stop herself, Bryony reached out a hand and grasped his, making Thorin look at her in shock. She gently squeezed his hand, marvelling at the calluses and scars, the heat of his palm scorching hers, and then let go. As she walked away, she could swear that the heat still lingered there, a mark of his skin against hers.

 

* * *

 

It was raining, again, because the rain earlier was apparently not so much an unlucky coincidence as it was a bloody big sign. A great big honking sign straight from the Valar that either said “Turn back now” or “Get yourself a new wizard because this one’s useless except for making witty and ambiguous one-liners. No, he _loves_ doing that.”

(Though the last one could be entirely Bryony’s addition.)

 Bryony cursed under her breath, the inventive swear words making Dwalin snort beside her and mutter something to Thorin, who was beside him.

“Gandalf, I know you can’t stop the rain, but are there any other wizards around that can?” She looked up through soaked gold curls at the taller figure who harrumphed in indignation.

“Why I never--for your information, there happens to be five of us. Saruman the White is the greatest of our order.”

“Bet he’d make the rain stop.” Bryony took a drink from her water flask and smiled innocently at Gandalf’s glare. “Sorry, go on. Go on.”

“Then the two Blue Wizards, whose names I’ve quite forgot. Quiet fellows they are. The fifth would be Radagast the Brown.”

“Oh joy, what a rainbow you five make.” Bryony heard a choking noise somewhere behind her. Probably Dwalin, who she discovered had quite the ear for sarcasm. “Is he a great Wizard, or more like you?”

“Why, he’s a great Wizard! In his own way. A gentle soul who prefers the company of animals to others. He keeps watch over the forests in the East, on guard for Evil’s work.”

“So there’s one White wizard, two others whom no one cares about, you, and a batty nature lover.” Bryony threw up her hands in defeat. “I’m going to go talk to Nori about improvising an umbrella.”

“Nori?” Dwalin said curiously, or as curiously as someone as gruff as him could.

“He has very interesting ideas.” Bryony said primly, straightening in her saddle with a demure smile playing along the edges of her lips. “Advised me on thirty different ways to hide my daggers. Not exactly proper, but most...” Here she hesitated, eyes lidded and smoky and green. “ _Enlightening.”_   Truly, her rides with the Brothers 'Ri had been very interesting indeed. Dwalin snorted, and nodded approvingly. Behind her, Thorin twitched.

“Aye lass, it’s a good idea to always have a weapon on your hands.” He took a wickedly flashing dirk out of his boot. “Here, keep that on you.” Bryony took it warily.

“I’ve only got one thigh sheath, and none of my garters are quite strong enough to hold anything of this weight.” She hefted it slightly. “Weighted in the tip. It’s meant to be thrown?” Green eyes blinked towards Dwalin, who nodded. "I'll get you a proper scabbard soon as I can."

“I didn’t realise you know anything about weaponry.” Thorin said, loping over to the hobbit’s side. Thorin and Dwalin flanked her on her left and right respectively, tall and looming enough to almost give her shade. She blinked at him quizzically. They hadn’t talked much since the night where Balin had recounted Azanulbizar, although from the way that the dwarf king had begun to deal with his nephews the hobbit knew that he had taken her words to heart. 

Bryony shrugged. “My mother was a most unusual hobbit. I’ve been to Ranger outposts, and they didn’t feel right letting me out in the wilderness unable to at least throw something sharp and run like hell.” She swung a leg over so that she was sitting sidesaddle and facing Thorin. This was going to be a horrendous breach of propriety, but yesterday before finding a stream to bath in the dwarves at seen fit to disrobe before her.  Bryony could take a chance. She quickly said a prayer to the Green Lady that none of her relatives would ever hear of her doing this. Bryony's hand hiked up her skirt, lifting layers of petticoats out of the way to bare her leg, around which was wrapped a leather thong, and higher, a leather garter holding up a dagger sheath. It was held up a little bit above her skirts for easy access, so it wasn’t as if the blonde was flashing more than an inch or two above her knee. She saw Thorin’s eyes zero in on it with a frightening intensity. The hobbit mentally shrugged. It wasn’t every day that you saw a hobbit wielding a weapon after all. She unwrapped the thong in one smooth tug to reveal a sling.

Bryony handed it over to Thorin, who had yet to take his eyes off her dagger. She sighed, pulled it out as well and then righted her skirts. Blue eyes tugged back to meet hers with an air of what could be sheepishness or embarrassment. Bryony didn’t know. He was a hard man to figure out, Thorin.

“A sling?” He said, after gruffly clearing his throat to break the awkward silence. The hobbit nodded, shaking loose some errant tendrils of gold hair.

“Every shepherd knows how to use a sling. It’s a good weapon to know, since you can improvise one out of almost anything, without much training involved.” As he handed it back to her, she handed him her dagger in turn. Thorin turned it around in his hands, thumbs caressing the cared-for hilt and one thick finger delicately testing the edge of the black.

“Good work.” He handed it back to her. Bryony promptly sheathed it. As she lifted her skirts again to tie back her weaponry, Thorin let out a strangled cough. Bryony stilled, hands on her thigh. “You okay?” Perhaps the dwarves weren’t as okay with skin as she thought. Certainly not many from the Shire were. Maybe he was coughing at her horrendous breach in propriety. He waved her off.

“Drank something the wrong way.” He had his waterskin in hand, so it was plausible. Green eyes looked at him suspiciously, before letting the matter drop. Dwalin snorted, making Bryony look over at him as she swung her legs back over her pony to ride the proper way.

“What’s so funny?”

Dwalin grinned. “Oh no, lass, I think I’m going to let you figure that one out.”

 

* * *

 

After a few days of riding, they finally arrived at what could be a camp, and Bryony was so glad to finally have an afternoon free from riding that she almost ignored the destroyed farm _house_ they were going to camp in. Around her, she could vaguely hear Thorin ordering Oin and Gloin to make a fire, and the others to set up camp. Bryony lingered at the edges, and thought it through.

A house, burned or destroyed or _something_ equally as unsavoury, with no bodies or corpses or even bits of bodies to show where on earth the people might have went. People don’t just up and leave after a tragedy. They stay, and stick around, and pick up the pieces and recover. Bryony laid a hand on what was left of a wall, and frowned.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this place.” She snapped herself out of her thoughts, only to see Gandalf storming off.

“Hey, what happened?” Bryony picked up her skirts and walked over to the wizard.

“I’m seeking the company of the only one around here that’s got any sense!” The wizard harrumphed, leaning on his staff which made audible, angry thumps as it hit the ground in time with his steps. Bryony lifted an arched blonde eyebrow.

“Well, I’m standing right here, and Balin’s over there, so whatever’s wrong I’m sure you can tell us--”

So maybe she was a bit bitchy. But she also hadn’t washed properly in a _very long while_ and had been surrounded by culture shock, culture gaps and _fourteen bloody other men_ so she had every right to bitch at Gandalf, who had gotten her into this mess.

“Actually, I was talking about myself! Blasted, stone-headed dwarves. Had enough of them for one day.” Gandalf’s sarcasm was audible and he descended into angry sounding mutters as he stalked away from the burgeoning camp. Bryony stared at Gandalf’s grey silhouette with a flat, unamused look, before turning to look behind at Thorin, whose hands were balled into fists and expression was tighter than usual. She winced. Even Dwalin and the brothers ‘Ur, who generally had the patience of saints/people who had put up with worse, steered clear of Thorin when in this funk.

“This day is shaping up to be just _wonderful_ , actual ground or not.” Bryony groaned as Thorin snapped at Bombur to cook for the company.

 

* * *

 

 

It was now night, Gandalf was gone, Thorin was in a snit, and they were missing ponies.

Green Lady ensure their crops not grow, Bryony knew she should’ve stayed on her horse. Getting to set foot on land was too lucky. There had to be a cost.

And apparently it was this, as she surveyed the ponies and took in Fili and Kili’s grim expressions. Thorin was only beginning to trust them with more and more duties, and this was going to kill any burgeoning hopes of their uncle acting kinder instead of a drill sergeant.

 _I take it back, I take everything back._ _Green Lady rescind my words, they are fools and I want nothing less than Thorin to whip them into proper, pony-watching shape._ She pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Something big and dangerous didn’t just uproot those trees and steal ponies, boys. Whoever did this? Is probably the same thing that destroyed an entire family and their farmhouse.” Green eyes watched as the boys slowly realised the implications. “So no, I’m not going in there.” They looked crestfallen, and before they protested Bryony held up one slim finger. “You have to do something first.

Fili and Kili looked at each other carefully. “Alright.” Fili ventured. Kili continued. “What will you have us do?”

“Here’s the plan.” They sat down, and before Bryony could open her mouth the crashes and sounds of branches being ripped out of the way multiplied by a hundred echoed behind her. She slowly turned around. Lumbering behind her, with two more of their ponies in tow, was a giant, fucking, troll.

Bryony swore floridly under her breath, making Fili and Kili’s heads turn towards hers in admiration.

“Alright. Plan.” She rubbed her hands together, waving her wrist in a circle as if wafting air towards her, trying to think. “You two _must_ alert Thorin. The troll took _four_ ponies. One or two could’ve easily fed it, which meant that there are more. At least two, but we haven’t had any sort of luck on our side so we should plan for more.”

“Uncle’s gonna roast us, or the troll will eat us because we didn’t have back up.” Fili said grimly. “Doomed either way. We’ll tell him what we did. Only…” He hesitated, looking up at her from under his lashes with a boyishly charming, hesitant look. If she wasn’t so panicked Bryony would’ve been proud at his emotional manipulation. She sighed again.

“Yes, fine. I’ll smooth things over with your uncle.” They grinned at her, and she did her best not to melt.

“I knew you were a good person, Mistress Baggins.” Kili said, slapping her back in boyish congratulations.

“So I’ll get them out, but make _sure_ you tell Thorin right away because if things go wrong at least I have an angry dwarf King at my back who wants to vent some anger.” Fili snickered.

Bryony stood, dusting off her petticoats and taking down her hair. Fili and Kili stared as the gold mass fell down her shoulders. The blonde shoved her hands through her hair and roughly combed out her hairpins, placing them in her pocket. Taking out a leather thong and holding it in her teeth as her hands gathered her hair for a high ponytail, she looked at them quizzically.

“Most dwarves never take their hair down in front of others. Hair can show status and identity. It’s a sacred part of the body. Doing so implies…familiarity and trust, to say the least. That one can trust us enough to do a private ritual in front of us.” Fili explained. Bryony’s lips made a small O of surprise, before she shook her head to clear her thoughts. As she finished tying her hair into a high bun, and then drawing up her cloak to hide its dark gold gleam, she shook Fili and Kili away. “Go! I’ll handle things from here.” Fili and Kili looked at each other, and then at her, and nodded. They rushed off, breaking twigs and branches on the way and Bryony winced at the sound before drawing her hood farther down to slightly cover her face and followed the sound of trolls.

 

* * *

 

 

Trolls, Bryony decided, were idiots.

She had stayed at the treeline of the clearing, observing and watching the surroundings for the glimpses of the dwarves—moonlight shining over a buckle, the heavy sound of footsteps. In the meantime, she observed the lumbering trolls in front of her.

They were stupid, but there were _three,_ and if one hadn’t noticed most of the dwarves capped off at little under five feet while the trolls soared over twelve, with at the very least twice Bombur’s bulk. They were chatting about how snot improved the flavour of the stew (ew) as Bryony made her way over the makeshift enclosure holding the ponies. As the trolls talked behind her, she calmed down the ponies and began sawing at the rope holding the ponies restrained. As she got down to the last bit, she looked around for any sign of Thorin. There! At the treeline where she came from, she could see the slightest silhouette of a dwarf. Praying it wasn’t just her eyes playing tricks on her, Bryony raised her dagger and sliced through the last of the rope.

And just like she had thought (but hoped desperately against) the ponies caused a stampede moving out of their bonds. One that led three giant troll’s attention straight to their rescuer: her.

Bryony was screwed. She took her dagger—or rather, the dagger Dwalin had given her—and aimed for one of the troll’s forehead.

It hit his shoulder, burying deep with a yell of pain. It was only a dagger though, and Bryony was out of anything else to throw. She ran off, keeping to the treeline where she knew Thorin would be coming from.

“Fuck fuck fuckery fucking—I knew I should’ve stayed at home, fuck fuck fuck.” Bryony swore as she ran, but the trolls had over eight feet on her and had legs longer than she was tall. It wasn’t much for them to reach her and scoop her up, holding her by the back of her dress like some wayward kitten and its scruff.

“Well what do we have here?” The troll said. Behind him the one whom she had gotten with the dagger pulled it out of his shoulder with a snarl. “An oversized squirrel?”

“Nah, Bert, squirrels don’t have weapons.” One of them said, and Bryony rolled her eyes and struggled harder.

“Let’s eat her, Bert. Won’t make more of a mouthful, but she looks tasty.” The troll she injured poked her in the side and Bryony stopped squirming out of sheer affront.

“How dare you—I’ll have you know my mother was a Belladonna plant. I’m poisonous to the last drop, I tell you.” She grinned, bravado fueling her bluff. “Eat me and beware.”

As the trolls worked their tiny brains to figure out what she’d said, Kili came bursting out of the treeline, sword in hand to hack at the trolls’ legs.

“Drop her.”

“What?” One of the trolls said.

“I said,” Kili swung his sword with a turn of his wrist and a cocky smile. “Drop her.”

Bert complied.

By throwing her at Kili’s feet—and seven hells and dying crops, Bryony hated this day, hated trolls, and hated everything.

As she slowly got up—her fair skin was bruised nearly black with the impact—she turned around to see the dwarves engaging in battle with the trolls. They were making good use of their numbers and size, darting around and in between the legs of the trolls, hacking and slashing to bring them down.

Green Lady above, she hurt _everywhere_. Bryony’s arms were stiff, the muscles protesting with every movement. She picked up a nearby rock off the ground and untied her sling, shoulders protesting her movements. Bryony swung, and her aim was true, knocking one of the trolls in the head and even staggering him a little—

Which of course drew attention to Bryony’s position. _Of course._ Green Lady above—she tried to run again, but with her entire side bruised, that wasn’t so easy. The troll scooped her up with one hand, and then tossing her to the other troll—and really, how _undignified_ , she was going to kill them for this—they each took hold of one of her limbs.

“Miss Bryony!” Kili shouted.

“No!” Thorin shouted.

“Lay down your arms, or we’ll rip hers off!” The troll shouted.

Really, all this shouting business was quite rude.

Thorin gave her a smouldering look that would be really quite fetching in any situation but this one, and shoved his sword in the ground.

 

* * *

 

 

Tied up. In sacks. If— _when_ —Bryony got out of here, she was going to set fire to the tired old burlap and dance on the ashes. _Trolls_. She should’ve laughed in Gandalf’s face and closed the door.

But damn it, she was here now, and like _hell_ Bryony Baggins was going to die cut up into a stew.

“Wait, you’re making a huge mistake!” She forced herself up on her feet.

“You can’t reason with them, they’re halfwits!” Dori shouted.

“Halfwits? What does that make us?” Bofur sputtered, and Bryony quietly agreed.

“I meant with the, um, seasoning!” The blonde cringed. That bluff would have to do. She could run with this.

“What do you know about cooking dwarf?” One of the trolls sneered.

“Shut up and let the weed’s daughter talk.”

 _Oh now._ If Bryony hadn’t been utterly outnumbered, injured, and in a sack, she would’ve picked Thorin’s sword off the ground and impaled the troll for that insult.

“T-the secret to cooking dwarf is—“

“Yes?” Damn it. She wracked her brain for any cooking term.

“Um—“

“Tell us the secret!” Impatient buggers.

“Marinating!” Bryony said triumphantly. She waited as the trolls fought to remember what that was.

“Marinating?” One of them whined. “That’ll take forever! I wanna eat them _now._ ”

Now to sow discord. “Now? After I told you that secret? How ungrateful! Why there’s that perfectly good stew right there that you lot have been ignoring, one that looks like it took time and effort indeed! With such food as that, you’d rather eat subpar dwarf because you were too impatient? Why, I never.” The blonde turned her nose up in a particularly haughty manner learned from her great aunt.

“Right!” And victory! The cook agreed with her. “I slaved for hours making that stew for you! We can wait just a couple hours for a dwarf, and eat that in the meantime!”

“She’s lying though!” And the last one piped up. She glared at the back of his head. Fucker. “I’ve eaten plenty of dwarves un-marinated.”

“But they won’t be as good as if you do!” Bryony hastily added. “I mean, have you smelt this lot?” Cue cries of indignation which she steadfastly ignored. “All tough and muscle-y too, and I bet their bones are even worse. Marinating them will let the flavours soak in and the meat become tender and juicy. Un-marinated dwarf, why, it would be just as bad as eating venison raw!”

The cook among the trolls nodded fervently. “Right!”

“Aw, come on, I bet just one wouldn’t hurt.” The impatient one grabbed Bombur from the ground and dangled him above his mouth. “Just a snack.”

“Wait!” Bryony cried. “Not that one! He’s—he’s infected!” The troll dropped Bombur back in the pile of sacks with disgust. “In fact, they’re all infected! You need to marinate them with ginger and sage to get rid of the vermin. It’s a terrible business otherwise. I wouldn’t risk it in the slightest.” She sniffed.

“Parasites?” Oin said in anger, puffing up like a balloon.

“We don’t have parasites! You have parasites!” Kili yelled. Bryony closed her eyes tightly in anger.

“What’re you talking about, lass?!” Gloin yelled.

And the dwarves began to yell, and really Bryony wondered if the trolls were thicker or the dwarves were. Thorin came to her rescue though, kicking Kili hard through the burlap of his sack. They all paused, brains working, and began to yell once more.

“I’ve got parasites as big as my arm!”

“No, I’ve got the biggest parasites, I’ve got huge parasites!” Kili yelled.

“We’re riddled with them!” Nori yelled from where he was being turned on the spit.

The troll turned to her angrily. “What would you have us do, then?”

She hesitated. “Well, they really are no good so you might as well—“

“Aha!” He yelled again. Bryony peered closer and—yes, damn it, this was the one she’d stuck with Dwalin’s throwing knife. “You think I don’t know what you’re up to? The weed is taking us all for fools!”

“Weed?” She yelled in indignation? “Weed?! That does it, you can shove a weed so far up your—“

 **“ _The dawn will take you all!_ ” **And Bryony grinned, even as the rest of her lovely inventive cursing was lost to Gandalf’s rumbling voice.

“Who’s that?” One of the trolls asked.

“No clue.” The other one responded. “Can we eat him too?”

“Oh boys, I wouldn’t risk it.” Bryony breathed out as the grey wizard split the boulder he was standing on to reveal the first rays of the dawn sun. Howling and screaming in pain, the trolls slowly turned into stone—skin going grey and limbs frozen in their last positions. Bryony grinned as the dwarves around her yelled in triumph.

Gandalf began going around, freeing dwarves and banking the fire upon which half of them had been roasting. The hobbit swayed on her feet. Fili ran over to his uncle and untied him and then her. Upon being freed from her confines, she immediately put her hands on her knees and breathed in and out, exhausted, dirty, and covered in bruises.

“My thanks,” And then the sun was blocked when Thorin stood in front of her, equally as exhausted looking but with a small smile that came from facing danger and coming out alive. He held out a hand and she took it, grateful for the help in standing up. “Mistress Baggins.”

“Bryony.” She said empathetically. “I thought we’d been over this.”

He smiled wider, and oh, Bryony wondered which was brighter: the morning sun or Thorin’s smile. Certainly one was far more rare than the other, and all the sweeter because of it. She gave her head a shake. She must have been concussed to entertain such thoughts.

“Alright then,” Thorin said. “Bryony.” The hobbit leaned her weight on his hand and stood fully up with a small, sweet smile.

 

* * *

 

Thorin had gone off to discuss something with Gandalf. Bryony was walking around, having found her sling from where she’d dropped and was now looking for her dagger.

“What’re you doing, Miss Baggins?” Nori called out to her.

“Finding my knife, Master Nori. Lost in in a troll’s shoulder, last I saw.” The red haired dwarf moved closer to her, looking for it as well.

“Aye, I saw that. Good shot, Miss Baggins.” He complimented, and she blushed. Nori pulled the knife out of the ground with a small “aha!”

“Found it!” He cried, handing it to her. She murmured her thanks. “Now, I was after you for something different. We found a cave where the trolls were hiding treasure!” His eyes glittered.

“Well, I can’t say no to that.” 

Turns out she could. Most empathetically indeed. It smelled like the back end of a manure-encrusted donkey, and she had no qualms about telling the dwarves such despite the shiny piles of gold and treasure within.

“I already smell bad enough because of the lack of baths on the road. You can piss off with making me go anywhere near _anything_ associated with trolls for the next hundred years of my life!” Bryony sat down to wait on a nearby rock as the others buried the treasure for a long term deposit. She buried her face in her hands. Green Lady above, she hurt all over, and wanted sleep and food and--

“Bryony?” Gandalf ambled over, two swords in hand, breaking her from her complaining inner monologue. One was significantly larger than the other, which was only slightly longer than the wizard’s forearm.

“Hmm?”

“This would be about your size.” The wizard said, handing her the small sword, which was a knife by any taller person’s definition. The hobbit turned it around in her hands. It was dusty and grimy, and she grimaced as she beheld it.

“I can’t take this.”

“You’ll need it though.” Gandalf said gravely. “I have a feeling that this will not be the worst of what we’re up against merely on the road, to say the least of the dangers that await us _at_ Erebor.” He gave the blonde a significant look. “And if things play as I think they will, you will not hesitate to continue running off into danger to defend yourself and your friends. No, you’ll need to be armed.”

Bryony looked at him warily. “I have never in my life used a sword.” She pointed out. “I’d probably injure myself waving it around.”

Gandalf gave her a sassy look, and then stared meaningfully at the heavily armed dwarves that surrounded them. “Oh, because learning how to fight in a company of warriors is a hardship indeed.” He said, making Bryony grin with the wit. “And besides, it is of Elvish make and will glow blue when orcs or goblins are nearby. A fine weapon to have, and I bet one of these strapping dwarves will help you learn how to use it.” He turned around slightly. “Why, Thorin would be delighted to help.”

Bryony rolled her eyes. “Thorin has better things to do. I’m sure Dwalin or Nori would—“

“And remember, Bryony, if you do decide to use the sword, I hope you remember one thing: true courage is about knowing not when to take a life, but when to spare one.” Her protest died on her lips in the face of Gandalf’s words. This wasn't just some witty one-liner. The normal acerbic comment dying, she merely looked at him gravely and nodded.

“Something’s coming.” Thorin’s voice broke their little reverie and Bryony started at the sudden sound in their little bubble of silence.

“Fuck. Gandalf—“

“Stay together! Hurry now, draw your swords and arm yourselves!” The others ran off into the woods. Bryony turned the sword over in her hands, closed her eyes, and followed them into the unknown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, from now on Bryony is based off of Rosamund Pike. Young, yes (she's thirty something when canonically Bilbo is fifty) but I've fucked around with the aging of the characters and now Bryony can expect to live 150 years, with allowances up to 175 and 200 years. That puts her in her early thirties which doesn't sound quite old but in a medieval, rural-based society like the Shire where most people would've married as soon as they turned of age, it's pretty damn old enough.
> 
> Which also makes the turning-of-age at 33 make sense, because that would place a young hobbit's physical age at 16.5-22. Which is within the range of modern coming-of-ages. It also allows a hobbit to live within the life-span of a dwarf, if there's an age gap. Also keep in mind that different species age different ways. Balin is old as fuck but still strong enough to fight, meaning that dwarves age far, far more gracefully than we do. Thorin at 170+ may make him in his fifties or even sixties as a human since dwarves live 250 years, but from what we can clearly see he's got the body and mind of someone in their early forties. I'm pulling off the same with the hobbits as with the dwarves: long lives with fast childhoods, long decades where you're pretty much the same just with more wrinkles and a less tough body, and then only in your last decade or so will you feel the "Fuck I'm Dying" effects of aging. So fast aging, slow aging, fast aging again.
> 
> Besides, Rosamund Pike is gorgeous in a very English-Rose way. Here's a good, almost Hobbit-ish picture of her: http://www.fanpop.com/clubs/rosamund-pike/images/14868706/title/rosamund-pike-wallpaper  
> (because fuck yes, P&P is amazing.)
> 
> So this chapter? Bryony's not as polite now. Fuck no. She's been solidly thrown into a world horribly unlike her own and really needs to vent. "Damn it Gandalf, why the hell am I surrounded by men I blame you for this fuck no" is basically her mindset considering that she's just met the dwarves and hasn't quite yet formed the bonds of friendship that she'd stick around for. Gandalf is also the only person she can rant to in confidence.
> 
> And I apologise for the scene on the rock where Moria was recounted--it was difficult for me to write, and I don't think I got Thorin quite in character. Will go back and rewrite it if anyone feels that I need to.
> 
> Also, I had yet to see any writers address the issue of UST. It shouldn't take six months to get attracted to Thorin, nor find him hot like burning. I mean, for us it only took three hours (or three minutes). Bryony is very much attracted to Thorin, and he to her, but won't make any moves because she's not looking for a relationship, or even a shag. He doesn't quite register as something more than "Wow he's complicated" and "Wow he's nice to look at". Not quite soulmate level yet, these two. 
> 
> Also it's not quite obliviousness. She doesn't look into his reactions to her, because she hasn't got reason to. Again, she's not crushing on him quite so much as it is straight up lust, so there's no giddy "Is-he-isn't-he-god-I-hope-he-is" thought going on in her head. Why look deeply into something that's just lust?
> 
> (BECAUSE HE'S YOUR FUTURE HUSBAND.)
> 
> (but shhh she doesn't know that yet.)
> 
> New chapter'll be out in a bit. Thanks to all those who stuck by the nearly-a-year hiatus <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Fan Art from 'hold my hand and we're almost there'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133614) by [Owlkin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owlkin/pseuds/Owlkin)




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